


an unravelling thread that pulls and pulls

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [160]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Porn, Arthur Pendragon Returns, First Kiss, First Meetings, M/M, Oblivious Arthur Pendragon, Pining Merlin (Merlin), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Reincarnation, Summer Love, roll in the hay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 16:05:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17083439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: It can’t be luck, because Merlin doesn’t believe in coincidences, but sometimes he hates the way his body betrays him whenever Arthur is around, the way his mouth shapes into an invitation he never meant to give.Written forMerthurDaily's10 Years of Merthur Celebration 2018, Day 3: Colours.





	an unravelling thread that pulls and pulls

 

He isn’t waiting, when Arthur stumbles back into his life. It’s been too many millennia now for that, too many years gathered up like sheaves of wheat, like grain stockpiled against a winter that never comes. The fields are dry—barren—the old farmhouse battered and leaning into the wind. He isn’t waiting.

 

Arthur arrives in a cloud of dust, the choking rumble of exhaust fumes that makes Merlin think of a dragon. His car is sleek, shiny and red, and he’s wearing motoring goggles which make him look ridiculous.

  
“I think I’m a little lost,” he says, unapologetically. His teeth are white against his tanned skin, hair golden, his linen suit a sandy beige. He wears his charm like it’s his armour, even now. “I don’t suppose you could direct me to the nearest town?”

 

“You missed the turn-off,” Merlin says. He doesn’t remember afterwards what he’d been doing that morning before Arthur came, but he remembers the grease on his hands, slick and suddenly smothering, the sweat prickling at the back of his neck. “Go back a ways, then turn right when you reach the sign.”

 

“Thank you.” He doesn’t drive away, but lingers, his eyes warm and strange and a little bit curious as he studies Merlin’s face. “Have we met before?”

 

“I don’t think so.” Merlin looks away from him. “Town’s only a few miles north; you should reach it before nightfall.”

 

 

+

 

 

The second time, it can’t be luck. The great monstrosity of an automobile stops outside of Merlin’s gate and Arthur steps out, uninvited, this time wearing a red necktie that precisely matches the colour of his car and a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin.

 

“Thought it must be you,” he says, holding out a hand. “You’re Martin Emerson, am I right? Arthur Penn. A friend in town told me you’re the one to see if I’m having trouble with my motor.”

 

Merlin’s eyes linger on the Dragon and his eyebrow goes up. Arthur laughs.

 

“I know she _seems_ fine,” he says, taking a step closer. His voice drops low, his eyes travelling down the length of Merlin’s lanky frame in a manner that could—if barely—be misconstrued as a threat. “But she’s been temperamental lately. I thought you might want to poke around, weave some of your mechanical magic and tell me what’s wrong.”

 

It can’t be luck, because Merlin doesn’t believe in coincidences, but sometimes he hates the way his body betrays him whenever Arthur is around, the way his mouth shapes into an invitation he never meant to give. Arthur’s expression brightens, his grip tightening over Merlin’s knuckles, drawing him in.

 

 

+

 

 

Arthur takes him in the loft above the hay barn, fingers fumbling with his trousers as he tugs them down, his cock flushed stiff and eager in the soft stripes of afternoon light. Merlin doesn’t bother to be quiet, knowing already how much Arthur likes to hear him cry out, the way he moans his pleasure into the still summer air. Arthur moans with him. He has his face buried in Merlin’s neck, hands at his hips, his body thrusting hot and hard against Merlin’s skin as he fucks him, a thousand years old and broken, into the wooden floor.

 

“Martin,” he breathes quietly, uncertainly, as he comes, and it’s almost enough to make Merlin regret taking a name that is so much like his own.

 

Almost.

 

 

+

 

 

“Have you always lived out here?” Arthur asks afterwards, legs dangling into empty space. He’s smoking a cigarette, shirt open, wisps of hay caught in his hair. He smells of tobacco and sweet grass, of sweat and sex and light rain in a dusty field. The red of his tie is shocking where it’s looped around his neck. “By yourself, I mean. Don’t you have any family?”

 

“If that’s your way of asking whether I’m married,” Merlin says drily, leaning up on his elbows. “I’m not. Though I’m not sure it would matter to you if I were.”

 

Arthur quirks a smile at him, his mouth crooked. “If that’s your way of asking whether I’m single,” he mocks, “I am. Perpetually.”

 

Arthur’s kisses taste like the aftermath of a lightning strike, and he pushes Merlin back into the straw with both hands, straddling his waist, wayward strands of hair falling over his eyes. Merlin runs his hands through them, dislodging motes of dust, pressing his nose to Arthur’s cheek and mouthing at his jaw, letting his teeth scrape over Arthur’s stubble. Arthur bites bruises into Merlin’s neck.

 

“You shouldn’t have come,” Merlin murmurs between kisses, too strung-out to dissemble anymore, to deny himself the only thing he ever truly wants. “It isn’t safe. I can’t protect you.”

 

“I don’t need you to protect me, Martin.” Arthur’s blue eyes look down at him, steady and bright and always so damnably sure. “I’ll be careful. I know what they think of men like us out here.”

 

That isn’t even remotely what he meant, but Merlin lets his head fall back, staring up at the remnants of a swallow’s nest tucked into the cross-beam. Some of the tiles have come unhinged, swinging crookedly to allow a stream of late-afternoon sunlight to illuminate the barn. Arthur’s weight settles against him; he can feel the grain of the floorboards beneath his back.

 

“Do you promise?” he asks. “Promise you’ll come back?”

 

Arthur’s thigh is jammed between his legs, his tie crumpled between them, trailing in the collection of sweat that has pooled at Merlin’s collarbones. He has Arthur’s come smeared and drying on his stomach, the sweet grass scent of him in his mouth and nose, but he can already see him in his mind’s eye—him and his temperamental automobile—travelling on up the road and out of sight. He never stays for long.

 

“I promise,” Arthur whispers, reverently. His hands are gentle where they cup Merlin’s face and his lips are soft, so Merlin lets his eyes fall closed; lets himself surrender, slowly, and pretends to believe the lie. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Let’s admit, without apology, what we do to each other.  
> We know who our enemies are. We know.
> 
> — [Richard Siken, _Detail of the Fire_](http://psychologytomorrowmagazine.com/richard-siken/)


End file.
